A Quintessential Mess of Things
by PrizJefra
Summary: A cunning killer sets out upon the streets of New Orleans. His name? Derek Morgan. His mission? To set right what has been wronged in his own special way. Reid had no idea that a visit to a long-lost friend would bring him face-to-face with this notorious killer nor could he ever imagine that he...well, you'll just have to read on to find out the rest. ReidxunsubMorgan ReidxEthan
1. Chapter 1

"What's on your mind?"

Reid broke out of his reverie to find Ethan staring at him over the rim of his glass. Although he seemed patiently and politely inquisitive there was no mistaking the mischievous hunger that lay beneath the mask. Reid smiled. He knew Ethan too well. There was no use in him trying to hide the fact that he probably already knew what was on Spencer's mind.

"What commands the attention of a genius?"

"A case," Reid said, his tone signifying that he was unsure if he wanted to divulge. Ethan _hmm_ed pensively. He got the message.

"Really? Here I was thinking that it was the drink in your hand that had you all starry-eyed."

"I barely took a sip,"

"Exactly. You've been staring at it for the past five minutes," Ethan paused and listened. Anthony Patterson was on the piano that night. Ethan did not trouble to hide the fact that he thought that the man played 'like an overenthusiastic piano student who only pounds out the notes because the silvers on his fingers are so damn heavy.' He took a sip but could barely savor the taste because the music that floated through his ears was such an unappetizing turn off. He stood up. "You know, I bet you didn't even here a word of what I was sayin'. Let me get you something different. Maybe that will put you in the mood." Ethan picked up his drink and walked away before Reid could protest. He came back ten minutes later with a noticeably angrier look on his face and a different glass in his hand.

"You okay, man?" Reid asked, accepting the drink that was handed to him.

"Not for long. There's only so much desecration that a beautiful work of art can take. Here's an Irish Whiskey with a hint of ginger ale, or vice versa, whichever fuels your fancy." Ethan cursed and promptly excused himself. Reid watched in surprise as he approached the piano man. The man's face fell with every word until, with a final gesture of disgust, he got up and stalked away. Ethan took his place and immediately began to play the same song, his pale hands dancing nimbly over the ivory keys. There was a temporary lull in the bar as people hushed their voices long enough to register this new kind of music. Most recognized it as a quintessential rendition of Phineas Newborn Jr and Roy Hayne's After Hours. Others merely recognized it as a very pretty song. _Good old Ethan_, Reid thought as he watched his friend dip lower and lower beneath the rim of the piano with eyes shut tight against the silent distractions of the bar. He crossed his legs and swirled the drink in his hand. It flashed a dizzying array of amber, red, and yellow shades as it reflected the spinning world around it. Reid stared into the glass, halfway hoping to find a single answer to all of his questions somewhere in the deceptively simple mixture of the piano's sound and the whirling colors…

"Take it easy, kid. You might just get drunk off of staring into that for too long," Reid jumped and cursed in frustration as the swirling colors leapt free from the glass and drenched his pants. He heard the man above him laugh and looked up at him in annoyance.

"Whoa, my bad. Try using this," He pulled a white cloth from his pocket and pressed it against his inner thigh, much to Reid's utter horror. But before he could completely comprehend the fact that the man had been bold enough to press his hand _there _the man had straightened up, the remnants of a suppressed smile still playing around his lips. Reid cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced over at Ethan. Unfortunately, his friend was still bent over the piano. He wouldn't be coming to his aid any time soon. Reid shifted his attention back to the man who was still standing over him and pursed his lips.

"Thanks," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. The man watched him for a while with black eyes that sparkled before he finally drew his gaze away.

"I, uh –" he smiled and gave a small laugh, "I actually came over here with the intent of being helpful. But I can see that I'm off to a bad start." Reid chanced looking up at him again and then quickly looked away. He didn't know why he had trouble meeting the man's gaze. He cleared his throat again but found that his voice just would not work.

"Wh-I don't know what you mean…" he finally managed. The man's smile widened. He pointed a ringed finger at the drink still in his hand.

"Irish whiskey with a hint of ginger ale? No, man, that does nothing for you," he picked up a glass from a passing waitress and handed it to him. "You might want to try this instead." Reid looked at the glass skeptically. He wasn't a big drinker yet the Irish Whiskey didn't sound like the most appetizing drink at the moment. Plus the man had a commanding air about him and although his smile was gentle and nonthreatening Reid felt uncontrollably compelled to taste the drink. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. He tasted ginger and sugar cane with a finely balanced hint of the customary alcoholic fire that warmed his chest.

"It's good," he said in surprise after a few seconds had passed. "What is it?"

"You can't tell?" Reid stared into the glass. He saw liquid the color of light tea flecked with red dots and blurry clouds sloshing around the glass. His eyebrows came together in concentration and he opened his mouth. He had read seventeen essays that month on the analysis of alcohol and how its varying physical traits could affect one's psyche but he did not remember encountering one that looked like this. He sucked air in through his teeth.

"Is it some kind of rum?" he asked hesitantly. The man laughed and looked around.

"You don't really strike me as a wine aficionado. No, you look more like a student to me-"

"Actually, I graduated from college five years ago at the age of eighteen." The man stared at him in surprise.

"You some kind of genius?"

"I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute while the average adult can only read 250 to 300 words a minute. So what I'm trying to say is…you tell me." The man laughed and Reid stared.

"Okay, so you have an IQ of – what is it, 187? – an eidetic memory, and you can read 20,000 words per minute yet you can't tell the difference between alcohol and very strong tea." Now it was Reid's turn to look surprise.

"But-"

"That burn you feel? Cayenne pepper. The bitterness? Fermentation. It's called Kombucha, ever come across it in those college textbooks of yours?" Suddenly Reid chuckled in embarrassment and the man stared. Reid hadn't realized that Ethan had stopped playing long ago and was giving the two of them a very strange look.

"Yeah, I had it a long time ago but I had completely forgotten about it."

"_Riiiiight_," There was a pause in which the two men simply stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the next move. Finally, the man raised his hand; his eyes alight with a mysterious mischievousness. "Derek Morgan," he said simply. Reid waved his hand and Morgan raised his eyebrow.

"Sorry, I don't shake,"

"Why not?" Morgan asked, feigning a look of offense, "my hands are clean."

"Actually they're not. Due to the frequency of hand-to-hand or hand-to-object contact most diseases and viruses are spread through that part of the body. You know, it's actually safer to kiss someone than shake their hands."

"...would you rather have me kiss you?"

"Yes – I mean no! Actually, what I'm saying i-" The man leaned down and kissed him softly on the corner of his lips.

"Stick with the tea, pretty boy," he whispered in his ear. He then straightened up, tipped his fedora, turned on his heel, and walked away.

"Looks like the Irish Whiskey was a good choice," Ethan said, coming up behind him and placing his hand on his seat. Reid jumped again but this time he managed to keep his drink in its container.

"I didn't know that you sold Kombucha."

"Most of the patrons here just aren't interested," Ethan paused and looked at him, "who was that man?"

"I was hoping that you'd be able to tell me…" Ethan shook his head.

"I've never seen him before. Listen," Ethan said suddenly, kneeling down next to him, "I know that the hotel is kind of far-"

"Ethan, it's only five minutes away-"

"-if you want to stay at my place…" Reid shook his head. By then he had managed to convince himself that the man simply was not real. He had appeared too suddenly and had disappeared too fast, almost as if he were a ghost or a very realistic illusion. Besides, this ghost-like man in a felt fedora had kissed him and, as his college 'acquaintances' were fond of saying, no living human being would ever kiss Spencer Reid.

Ethan watched him for a moment. It was obvious that the young genius's mind was somewhere else completely. He sighed and stood up. It never ceased to mystify him that Reid was so intelligent and yet so very stupid. _I haven't tried Hallelujah in a while_, he thought to himself as he made is way over to the piano. He ran his fingers softly over the cold surface, glanced at Reid sitting silently in his chair, and began to play.

Xxxxxx

Reid listened as Ethan began to play again. This time a wayward, haunting melody drifted through the room, sending a slight shiver through those who were more accustomed to the seductive songs that graced the bar. He wondered why Ethan had chosen such a melancholy song before he remembered that, as cool minded as he pretended to be, Ethan was subjected to whims and temptations just like everyone else, maybe even more so. By now the memory of Derek Morgan had all but completely faded from his mind until he reached into his pocket and found a damp cloth crumbled there. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was the cloth that Derek Morgan had given him, unmistakable due to the D.M. monogramed in calligraphy on one of the corners. Ghost didn't hand out tangible cloths.

Reid stuffed it back in his pocket but then promptly pulled it back out when he realized that he had absolutely no use for it. He leaned over to place it in the trash bin near his chair but could not bring himself to throw it away. It hovered a few inches above the silver rim, a bright white flag, before Reid pulled it back and stuffed it in his pocket again. It was still wet and leaked onto his legs but, despite everything, he felt no desire to get rid of it or its alcohol-drenched memories just yet.

Xxxxx

Morgan exited the building, pausing just long enough in the doorway so that the camera could catch his face. Once outside he stood still a moment to breathe in the cool night air before walking towards his car. He was surprisingly calm considering what he was about to do and even began to whistle his favorite song at the time Luck Be a Lady by Frank Sinatra. But his luck hadn't exactly been a lady that night, a fact that he wouldn't fully come to terms with for another few years.

He hopped in his car and revved the engine, relishing its angry purr as it sent vibrations through the soles of his Salvatore shoes and up his legs. He flipped through the stations indecisively but, unable to find anything, jammed the off button and pulled out of the driveway. Luckily for him the road was empty so, when he was sure that he had left the bar a good distance behind, he wrenched his steering wheel around and drove into a neglected grassy plane back the way he came except this time he approached the bar from the back. There he sat in his car, obscured by the shadows, and watched as the occasional waiter or waitress slipped out back to enjoy a cigarette or the lips of one another. Finally, after three hours of sitting still and watching, the number of people leaving the building decreased until only a few drunken patrons remained. They took their last sips and muttered their last curses before being ushered away by the staff who were eager to get home. He knew their shifts and habits very well due, in part, to the breathless murmurings of a disgruntled waitress who, upon his advice, had left the state soon after giving him the information. He knew that in fifteen minutes Patterson, a sallow man who usually lingered about after everyone had gone home, would lock up. And then…

He waited, took a sip of beer from the lukewarm bottle. He'd wait all night if he had to. Ten minutes past, then thirty, then forty-five until, after another hour had passed, he saw what he had been waiting for. A heavy man clad in an expensive Armani suit much like the one that Morgan was wearing walked into the back patio, followed by three men carrying suitcases. The heavy man seemed confident, almost obnoxiously so, and Morgan gathered that he was of the type that preferred to enjoy the spoils of his work as opposed to dealing with the necessities. The other men he knew by name and name only, which was how he liked it. He watched them enter the backdoor, casting furtive glances around them as they did. _Funny that men so cocky should be afraid of the dark_, he thought as he took another sip, _It's not like there's a Derek Morgan hiding in it or anything. _ He smiled at his own joke. A yellow light turned on in the top room and Morgan watched as the three shadows passed before it – back and forth, back and forth like they were pacing. One man held something up (a stolen antique necklace, Morgan guessed) and the heavy man joined him in the window. He held the necklace to his face, shook his head, and dropped it on the ground. This went on for about an hour, keeping Morgan very entertained, before there was a sound of glass breaking and a man's cursing. The three men burst through the door with murderous looks on their faces as the heavy man followed close in their wake.

"I would have expected more from you," he yelled after them. His face was red, "I have _never_ known Alan to reference such idiots until now."

"Watch it, cowboy," one of the men said slowly, turning to face the man, "there are 700 of us and only one of you. Which would you prefer: a large selection of men working with you or a large selection of weapons pointed at your ugly face? You've already pissed off twelve of us." That shut the man up. The man who had spoken made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and shot it at the man's face. The heavy man flinched and watched in embarrassment as the men began to laugh.

"See ya, cowboy." They walked away and melted into the darkness beyond the bar. For the longest time the man just stood still and watched them go. Finally he turned away and walked back into the club, slamming the door behind him. Morgan waited ten minutes before picking up his disposable cell phone and dialing his number.

"Who is this?"

"Terry Moore," he said into the phone with a small smile. He remembered Terry Moore. He remembered him very well. "I'm in the back."

"You brought the stuff?"

"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

"Right," there was no mistaking the self-satisfaction in the man's voice. Did he honestly think that he was responsible for Morgan's supposed success? "I'll be down, give me a second."  
A few seconds later found the heavy man in the back patio again, a wide grin on his face. He shook Morgan's hand, a bit overenthusiastically.

"Eric," he said.

"Wow," he said, taking a step back, "I didn't expect you to be…you sounded so – _you know_ – on the phone."

"I sounded so what on the phone?"

"White," the man whispered as if it were obvious. Morgan raised an eyebrow. "So where's the stuff?"

"In the museum where it can be kept safe from men like you," Eric stared at him in shock.

"It…it's not here?"

"Nope,"

"You didn't steal it?"

"Nope," Morgan looked up at the camera angled towards his face. The lens was pitch black as if some of the night had been siphoned into the tiny camera. He liked cameras.

"Then…then why are you here?" the man finally sputtered. Morgan slowly slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at Eric until the man became quite uncomfortable and had to look away.

"Kevin Hartley," Morgan said in a quiet voice. The man flinched. "Do you remember him?"

"I don't know who you're talking about,"

"You should. You strangled him to death. Or do you just strangle a lot of seventeen year old boys to death?"

"No, no! I don't – how did you –" Morgan took a step towards him, his eyes flashing. It was strange; with his hands in his pockets he seemed even more threatening. It was much more frightening not knowing what he planned on doing or when he planned on doing it. Eric swallowed and backed up until the tips of his fingers were pressed against the cold, unyielding wall.

"What would you say to him if he were here now?"

"I...I don't….look, stop – what are you…I didn't do anything!"

"Wrong answer," with that Morgan pulled his fine hands from his pocket and wrapped them around the man's neck.

xxxxxxx

**Author's Note: You know, this story was born out my fangirl need to see a fedora-wearing verybadboy Morgan kiss Spencer Reid. This one may not be as long and complex as my other ReidxMorgan (I was wondering, what do you call their pairing anyway? Spencerek? Derencer? Reidorgan? Moreid – ooh, I like that one) but I am willing to give it a try! Tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

Morgan lay idly upon the settee, his legs stretched out before him and his favorite gun (which he had lovingly named Clooney) hanging upon a finger of an outstretched hand. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling which seemed to expand forever above him. It was easy for him to lose himself in the fantasy that nothing else existed: there were only the black stairs spiraling around and around in a dizzying way along the oddly translucent white walls until they reached the domed glass ceiling at the top but soon the sound of a refrigerator door being slammed brought back into reality.

"There's a situation in the fridge," a short woman dressed in all-black with silver wedding rings sewn across her collar stepped into the room, breathing heavily. It never ceased to amaze him that she didn't simply choke on the overabundance of oxygen that she took in on a daily basis. She always seemed to be panting (usually in excitement or anticipation) or struggling for breath, giving her a distinctly hound-on-a-trail like impression. She surveyed the mess of fine cigars, wads of cash, and impressive, glinting weapons on the coffee table with satisfaction before turning her green eyes on Morgan. Here he was surrounded by an overabundance of wealth and pleasure and yet he was fast asleep. Five years she had been in the business and still the site of diamonds and mutilated things brought on the excitement that she thought would cease with her amateur days. She pointed in the direction of the kitchen even though she knew that Morgan did not see her. "There's a situation in the -"

"I know," he said without opening his eyes. "Last night another bag of human fingers appeared in the back of the fridge. Any idea who could have put them there?" The woman paused and stared at him in obvious embarrassment.

"Well, I don't…"

"…know who could have put them there?" he laughed. "Did I forget to mention that they were all ring fingers? Mind you, all of the rings were missing…"

She snickered and pounced on the couch in front of him. She sat still for a moment with a pillow hugged to her chest and listened with a reverent attentiveness to the song playing on her iPod. It was the current 'theme song' of the Company thus she had memorized every bridge and breath within the first hour that it had been played at one of Percival's lavish parties.

"_This leather jacket's ripped_

_It tells stories though it's worn_

_It has seen the man that was never, ever born_

_It knows my solitude, it brings warmth to my pain_

_It keeps out the sunlight and lets in the rain_

_It keeps out the sunlight – ooh, and it lets in the rain._"

"You know, Derek," she said with an enamored glint in her eye. She began to sway side-to-side in time with the jazzy tempo. "One man's treasure is also another man's treasure. But both men's treasure is my absolute right – HA!" She slammed her fist on the cushions and Morgan jumped. He liked Terrence because she seemed just a bit more human than the rest of the Company yet sometimes the lusty inhumanity that drove them all did surface and mar her otherwise harmlessly playful demeanor. The phone began to ring and he straightened up to reload his gun.

"Get a life," he said in a smooth voice before aiming his gun at the wailing object.

_BAM!_

And the poor telephone was no more.

Terrence stared wide-eyed at the white shards that bounced around her sneakers before looking up at him with the same comical look of surprise. "Bad day?" she asked.

"Just…uneventful," he said slowly, "So yes, I had a bad day."

"Right….right." She looked away and began to pack the money in tiny black bags, all the while conscious of the fact that Morgan was watching her with those black-as-night eyes of his. She began to hum along with the music uncomfortably.

"_My last love has shipped_

_She knew my heart, but she was_

_A star gazing woman and she left me because_

_I had an old leather jacket and a faux-golden cane_

_Her polka dot jacket kept me out of the rain_

_Baby, Her Polka dot jacket kept me out of the rain…_"

"You have something you want to say to me, Terrence?" he asked, scrutinizing his gun with unabashed adoration. When the sunlight filtering in through the windows caught the black metal and illuminated every line and twist of the powerful machine it just looked so…sexy. She bit her lip.

"Derek, I –"

"I told you not to call me that."

"Okay, _Terry_. Look, I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't tell you this but people are starting to talk. You know, the Company? There have been rumors…"

"Uh-huh…" he pulled the slide back with a loud snap and inspected the barrel with satisfaction. He knew damn well about the rumors.

"Dere-Terry, they're beginning to question your authenticity. No one knows where you came from! Not that it matters to me…"

"I came from the Company in Las Vegas. They all know that."

"Right but, Terry," she put the wad of cash that she had been counting back on the table and sighed. He could tell that she was trying to decide on how best to disguise her next sentence so that it would not sound like the suspicious whispers that floated around the Company. "They...you…you're…well, Terry they know that you're from Las Vegas and the Company over there confirms it but nobody really knows who you _are_. I mean, I know that the Company operates on secrecy but every man and woman in it has a story or profile, even if they don't speak much of it. Hell, Bobby is practically mute but everybody knows how he works and it's easier to trust him that way," she quickly put her hand over her mouth, "not that dependability is an issue…point is, you just showed up a few months ago out of nowhere – no record, no surefire verification, and no story to your name. All anybody knows about you is that your name is Terry Moore and that you came from Las Vegas. Even I don't know what your damn favorite color is and I'm your best friend," she murmured under her breath. Derek scratched his head with the barrel of his gun and gave her that same infuriatingly knowing look.

"Hey, look at me," he finally said after a moment had passed. She looked up at him and found herself drawn to his mischievous eyes. He was going full Charmer Mode, she knew, but she was not complaining. "You know I love you, right?"

"Well…"

"Just say yes."

"No."

"A 'no' from you is a 'yes' for me, _baby_," he said, flashing his white teeth at her. She couldn't help smiling, "And you know that I appreciate everything that you tell me. But everybody has their own secrets. And so far secrecy is the only thing that has kept me safe all of these years."

"But _Percival_…"

"As far as I'm concerned, Percival can go and –" her eyes widened drastically at his next words and she quickly put her hands over her ears. It was a well-known fact that she, along with a hundred other members, had a dangerous infatuation with the man.

"See?! This is exactly why half of the Company doesn't like you. Only you would say something like that."

"Well, maybe that's because…" he sighed and decided to let it drop. He knew that what she said was true: sooner or later the rest of the Company would find it necessary to take a closer look at his resume. Terry Moore had performed a few notable feats in his amateur years but those were fading fast in the minds of the others. It would be easier for him to simply relocate to a new base but he had business that he had to take care of in New Orleans. Besides, Morgan wasn't a man to run away from his problems. No, he preferred to take them head-on. A peaceful sort of silence descended upon them once again, flavored only by the husky voices of the fine singers and the hissing of trees as they brushed against the sides of the mansion. The mansion (a luxuriously spacious building with more window than drywall) had originally been owned by the late Terry Moore so no one had thought to think twice when Morgan had decided to settle in. It was relatively easy: most of the Company had only known Terry on paper and the few that had visited him couldn't care less about the movements of the young man anymore. Morgan figured he had three, maybe four months before people became suspicious enough to investigate but he would be long gone and onto other business before they truly realized what hit them. He continued to watch her.

"You know, the latest-" suddenly he sat bolt upright and flicked his wrist in a violent manner. Terrence didn't even realize what had happened until she looked down and saw a knife pinned to the thick stack of dollar bills beneath her fingers. It was the money that Morgan had taken the night before, after he had murdered Eric. The guns and fine cigars were his, too.

"What are you _doing_?!" she yelped in surprise.

"That one stays where it is."

"No…" she said slowly. Her breathing began to get heavy again which was a sign that her murderous personality was beginning to take over, "That one – along with my share – is going to Percival…like it should."

"I already paid my dues to the Company," Morgan growled. He stood up and only then did Terrence realize just how darkly intimidating he could be. She watched him stroll over and casually slip the bundle in the pocket of his suit after taking out a small sheaf. "You see this?" he held the sheaf up to her nose and she swiped at it, "Ah-ah-ah. This right here is a class-A example of money tainted by the dirtiest hands that you have the pretty little fortune of _never_ seeing. Thanks to me, those hands will never taint anything again. This money is going back to where it belongs."

"You're one to talk so righteous, considering you're present company _which_ 30% of all of your profits belongs to! Derek, if you won't give it to me I'll take it from you!"

"You don't want to do that..."

The two stared at each other. Terrence stood ready to pounce as Morgan stared down at her with pitiless eyes. Just as Terrence struck him as disturbingly playful Morgan struck her as a cool-headed, cocky man whose confidence masked a deeper immorality that only the dead had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. He wouldn't hesitate to slice off her hands if it helped him to achieve his means, this much she knew. She laughed.

"I'm just kidding!" she exclaimed. She was wrong to think that punching his shoulder would lighten the mood. "Hey, we have a good thing going here! Let's not ruin it with petty threats and money and stuff, eh, Terry?" She held out her hand. For a minute she thought that he wasn't going to take it and she mentally took stock of the quickest path to the nearest weapon (the poker near the fireplace would have to do) when suddenly he smiled and grasped her hand.

"I couldn't agree more, my friend. Now get out of here before I start causing some real trouble. Go on, now. Shoo."

She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked towards the door. She paused with her hand on the golden handle and slowly turned towards him "Hey, Derek? I'm the only one that you've ever told your real name to, right? Remember that. You trust me." With that she slipped out the door, slowly easing it closed behind her.

Morgan sighed and fished the disposable gun that he had used last night from his suitcase. He tried to remember what he had been thinking about before she had interrupted his train of thought. It had brought him a strange sense of pleasure, whatever it had been or whoever it had been. He threw the phone up in the air and then just as quickly whipped a second gun out of its hidden holster. He clipped the phone right in midair with a precision that would have sent Ripley into a fit and watched as the little black pieces went cascading about the room like black raindrops racing through yellow sunlight.

Suddenly he remembered who he had been thinking of. The man at the bar, the one with the IQ of….he smiled. 187. Something about the sunlight that shone through the crystal windows had reminded him of the man's face. He realized that he didn't know the man's name and this struck him as unfair. The kid had certainly made an impression on him and, due to that, Morgan found him irritatingly unforgettable. He would just have to find out his name. And maybe get his handkerchief back. Or perhaps the latter was unnecessary.

Morgan stuffed the money in his pocket and stepped outside with a clear plan of action in his mind. It was only when he found himself driving faster than usual on the freeway did he realize that he had just been making excuses to see the kid again.

xXxXxXx

Later on that afternoon a handsome man in a black suit showed up at the Hartley residence, claiming to have found a wallet filled with cash on the sidewalk that didn't have any form of ID in it and could it possibly have belonged to them? Mrs. Hartley, a petite African American woman who had lost her son to the hands of a heartless man over three years ago, had sworn that it couldn't have belonged to her and that he should try the next door neighbors. The man had shook his head and insisted on her holding on to it.

"Whoever it was obviously has more than enough money to keep him satisfied. I don't think that anyone will be coming back for it, miss. You take care now."

With that he had walked away, his eyes unusually dark beneath his black sunglasses.

xXxXxXxXx

Reid sat on the balcony of his hotel room, poring over a thick book of criticism on the works of Sir Conan Doyle. He wasn't one to sit outside and 'enjoy' the sunlight (too often it gave him headaches) but Ethan was adamant in his texts when he told him to leave the cold confines of his hotel room and make peace with the New Orleans sun. So he had thrown on a pair of sunglasses, grabbed the nearest book, and submitted himself to a day of reading in the sunlight. He himself had submitted an essay of critiques on the subject but the editors had rejected it. Something about him using a psychological profile to compare Sir Conan Doyle to a mission-oriented serial killer in order to get a point across had rubbed them the wrong way. Now he read through the essays at an almost impossible speed, his lips moving silently as he took in the tiny black words on the page. He had basically been saying the same things in his essay...he'd just been saying it in a different way. His cellphone beeped and he picked it up. There was a single text from Hotch with a link attached to it.

_I received this from an officer in Nevada. Do you mind taking a look at it when you have time?_

_P.S. I hope that you're enjoying the weather out there._

Reid opened the link and scrolled through it quickly. It was a letter of concern from a commanding officer on a trending crime rate that seemed to be crossing state lines. There was also an attached chart showing a spiked increase in crime that didn't seem to be completely out of the ordinary (a fact which the officer admitted to.) There was also mention of some company…an exceedingly patient killer…a man named –

"Ah, I told you someone was using that room. Hello there!" Reid looked up and saw a man leaning out of the balcony in the room next to him. A woman was leaning over his shoulder. When she saw Reid looking she smirked and left the balcony. Reid pursed his lips in a smile and waved back at the man.

"The name's Percival. I'm the manager of this place. _Wellll_, I basically own it but no one wants to admit that."

"Ah," Reid said, unsure of what else to say. He was hoping that the man would go away but he could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to talk. He closed his book regretfully and stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he did so.

"My friend and I have a bet going," he said, crossing his arms over the black railing. He struck Reid as a man constantly up to no good and that his talking to him was only a slight deviation from his usual mischievousness.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"She thinks you're a painter. She says you have those fine, graceful hands needed to hold a paint brush steady. I think you're a student desperately trying to earn your degree, judging by the way that you're finger has been moving across that page," he gestured unnecessarily at Reid's hands, "Now, I have fifty bucks and a spare favor on this one, so how about you just tell me that you're a student and we can get this over with?"

"Actually I'm a part of a special branch of the FBI called the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We help the departments catch serial killers by providing them with psychological evaluations which the Unknown Subject is likely to follow judging by past –"

"You're FBI, huh?" Reid could hear the sudden interest in the man's voice, "You catch the bad guys?"

"Well, yeah…"

"You hear that, Jordan?" he called to the woman in the room behind him, "He's FBI. Isn't that wonderful?" The woman said something that Reid couldn't hear and the man laughed. He turned back to him with a pantomime of a smile on his face. "What's your name, cowboy?"

"Spencer Reid," Reid said slowly. He didn't like the man. He didn't like him at all.

"Well, Mister Spencer Reid. If you ever need anything – anything at all – I'm usually in room 221. You should stop by for tea and scrambled eggs sometime. I swear, Jordan makes the best scrambled eggs that you will ever have the pleasure of experiencing."

"Thanks…I'll consider it."

"Don't let me down, cowboy." He cast him a salute, turned on his heel, and went back inside. Reid returned to his seat and reopened the book in his lap. But he couldn't focus anymore. He was beginning to wonder if telling Percival that he was an FBI agent was a good thing.


	3. Chapter 3

There was nothing more soothing to Ethan than the sounds in the bar on a Sunday night. Most people didn't believe him when he said that he found a peaceful sort of rhythm in silver glasses clinking, jazzy women laughing, and the often experimental music that came from the drifting whims of the various piano players. These 'unlinked pieces of paradise,' as he called them merely embellished the entertainment of the ignorant others but Ethan found sustenance in the sounds. He simply could not survive without them.

A man came up to him and ordered a martini, all the while keeping his eye on a pretty dancing angel nearby. Ethan knew the woman. He had dated her a few months back. She was a wild card: a woman who would whip a man just as soon as she would kiss him. Every so often he'd get guys and girls like them in the bar. These were the shifty-eyed patrons who called everyone and everything 'cowboy' and often had their fingers looped around some poor, flattered soul's necklace or expensive tie. He suspected that they had something to do with the death of his boss. He thought it funny that they should still hang around the place, considering the fact that the man had been murdered just two days ago. On the contrary they crept and danced about the place as usual as if nothing had happened.

Yet it was possible that they did not know. Two days ago he had arrived at the bar early in the morning to find two policemen lingering by the front door. They had told him in hushed voices that the body of his boss had been found out back. He had been strangled and quite a few of his more expensive possessions had been stolen. They had told him not to worry about it and to just go on and open the bar (strange advice coming from two cops) and then, much to his surprise, had slipped him an envelope containing three crisp hundred dollar bills.

"We'd like to keep this quiet," they had told him with unblinking eyes. And then, without any further questioning, they had simply walked away.

Of course, Ethan had found the whole business clumsy and uncomfortable but what was he going to do? He couldn't afford to stir up trouble nor could he afford to shake his head at the NOPD's dirty money. Besides, he felt as if he surrounded himself with too many dangerous people on a daily basis. He couldn't take a gamble at having the NOPD training their guns on him, too.

Another man slid into the stool in front of him and ordered a Cosmopolitan and then on second thought changed his drink to a spicy Kombucha. Ethan barely paid attention to the man in the black hat and went into the back. It was only when he was staring into the old refrigerator did he think to find it odd that someone would make such a drastic change in their drink, odder still that someone would order the drink in the first place. He grabbed the cold bottle from the back and slammed the fridge. He had a feeling that he'd be able to match the drink to a face, a face that he wasn't too keen on seeing for reasons of his own.

He returned and dropped the bottle on the oak counter with a loud 'clunk.' The man in front of him raised an eyebrow at him before sliding a folded twenty dollar bill his way, much more than what the drink was actually worth. "Here take it easy, my man," he said in a smooth voice. Ethan casually slid the money back his way and told him in an equally smooth voice that it was on the house. But before he could slide it back all the way Morgan reached out and stopped him with a small, mocking smile playing about his lips. "I insist," he said.

Ethan stared at him for a moment before casually slipping the bill in his vest pocket. He then turned away and began to busy himself with something else.

"So where is he?" He turned towards Morgan again with suspicion in his eyes.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"Come on, don't play dumb," Morgan surveyed the rim of the bottle with interest as if he hadn't even been speaking to the man at all. Ethan took a few steps closer, his suspicion replaced by pure disbelief. Who did the man think he _was_?

"You're friend. The one with the high IQ and diamond-shaped…" Morgan ran a finger around his lips before shaking his head and dropping his hand. Ethan new who he was talking about. It occurred to him that the twenty dollars hadn't been for the drink at all but rather the man had been bribing him. This, however, is not what made him hold his tongue. He was immensely suspicious of the man. He dressed and spoke like the more wily patrons of the club and, besides, Ethan had trouble trusting his darkly seductive looks. Men like him liked to disguise their power with charm and playful banter but, in the end, they were as devious as the worst.

_Just like some men disguise their jealousy with spite_, Ethan thought to himself. He had seen the swift gesture of affection that had passed between the man and his friend. But he was careful not to let his jealousy show, so careful, in fact, that it was easy for him to feel justified in hating the man.

"Who's asking?" Ethan asked.

"Someone who you don't want to mess with…"

"Then what makes you think that I'd let you anywhere near him?" Morgan leaned back and gave a short, appreciative laugh that held no such careless mirth.

"I'm sorry, I must be missing something. You're his daddy, right? Or an…overbearing brother? Either way," Morgan stood up and put his hand on his belt. Ethan saw the glint of a blade there but he was not afraid, "I don't think it's your call."

Luckily, right at that moment the man that they had been speaking of stepped from around the corner with a thick book held open in his hand. "Ethan, you will not believe this but I was reading up on the many factors leading up to the Incan conquest and – um," he suddenly noticed Morgan leaning across the counter. A smile broke out across his face, mirroring Morgan's perfectly. "Derek Morgan," he said in surprise.

"Pretty Boy," he reached his hand out across the counter and then, after an awkward pause, pulled it back with a handsome laugh. His obvious joy at seeing Reid again seemed to contradict the dark persona slathered in shadows that poured from the brim of his fedora and slipped over his body. It was a bit frightening yet at the same time Reid couldn't help but notice that his black suit-clad appearance had a distinctly artistic, if not surreal, feel to it. He had known and read about other men that had had such a dark appeal. Unfortunately, they were all killers. Nonetheless, Reid let the warmth that flowed through Morgan's palm when he pressed it against the side of his face flow through him even though he was unfamiliar with such gestures. "Long time no see," he said with that signature glint in his brown eyes.

"Yeah," Reid said breathlessly. He cleared his throat. "Ethan said that you don't come around often," he saw the dark look that Morgan shot at his friend, "what's the occasion?"

"Getting up with the aide of only four cups of coffee this morning," Morgan grinned at him conspiratorially and took another sip of his drink.

"Only?" Reid raised his eyebrows, "A recovering addict, I see."

"You have no idea. Also," here Morgan hesitated. He swished the blurry drink around the bottle without saying anything until finally he mustered up the courage to say, "I never found out your name."

"Are you saying that that's part of the occasion?"

Morgan didn't answer and instead stared into the drink. Finally he drew his eyes up to Reid's and tried to smile his winning, light-hearted smile that he used to hide deeper emotions but something about the man's eyes – really nothing more than a flash like a diamond buried in darkness – sent shards of ice swimming through his blood and kicked his heart into a violent flutter. He mentally cursed the man and the strange power that he unknowingly wielded over him.

"Tell me your name," he growled in a low voice. Reid stared at him with unblinking eyes.

"Spencer Reid," And just like that whatever tense spell that had temporarily settled upon them lifted and the magic of their setting drifted back into them again.

"Well, _Spencer Reid_," Morgan said with relish. He liked the name. He liked it a lot. It tasted…wonderful on his tongue like a drop of spice and honey. "Is it just me or is it hot in here? I could do with a smoothie or somethin'."

"That's …very interesting." Reid said awkwardly. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and looked away. There was a pause and then – "Oh, do you want me to go with you?" Morgan burst out laughing, a sound that immediately silenced the bar.

"My man," he exclaimed, clapping Reid on the back. "Come on, I know a place just around the corner."

Reid was about to follow him when a rough hand landed on his shoulder and pulled him back. He flinched and spun around with angry, flashing eyes but his look softened when he saw his friend standing before him.

"What are you doing?" he asked gruffly, his grip tightening on his book. Ethan gave him a look.

"I had no idea that you were so adverse to touch," Ethan said with a hidden note of irony. Before Reid could question him he leaned in closer and whispered, "I need to talk to you."

"Ethan," Reid glanced over his shoulder at Morgan who was waiting at the doorway, "now really isn't the time."

"Who's dictating that, I wonder? Spencer, my friend, I know that that man is no good for you."

"How could you possibly know that?" Reid asked with more venom than he knew. Ethan looked at him for a moment in silence, his face swathed in shadows.

"I just know," he said finally. Of course, Reid valued and respected Ethan's opinions. Hell, he valued and respected them as much as he did the members of his team. Now, more than ever, he felt the weight of his friend's earnestness settle upon his shoulders but the irresistible and enigmatic charm of Derek Morgan tugged at his soul from the opposite direction. He turned, submitting to the tug and pull, and flashed Ethan an apologetic look over his shoulder.

"I-I gotta go," he mumbled under his breath. He readjusted the book under his arm and walked away with his head held low, not once looking back at Ethan.

xXxXxXxXx

"So you're telling me that you think a killer can be good?"

"Good and evil is actually a post-conceived notion that we as modern day humans have latched on to considering the contradictory fact that if-"

"Hey, hey, hey. I'm asking for a straight answer here."

"Oh, you want a straight answer? Well, assuming the concept of good versus bad to be absolute then…yes. I do believe that a killer can be good."

"So a psychopath strangles someone in a back alley and you're saying that he still has goodness in him?"

"That depends on what drove him to do it. He may have heard voices which told him to kill in which case he probably felt like he didn't have a choice. Or perhaps he truly believes that he is doing the world a favor in strangling the man in which case he's…simply acting out of his own pre-conceived notion of goodness."

"Hmm," Morgan took a sip of his smoothie and pondered what Reid had said. "And you truly believe that?"

"I do."  
They continued to walk on in silence along the crowded bridge. A storm was gathering over the distant ocean and already tiny droplets of rain had begun to splatter their face and hands but neither of them seemed to care. As other people began to shiver and run into the safety of waiting taxis or bus stops with umbrellas tilting dangerously in the wind Morgan and Reid simply shuffled on across the darkening wood to the tune of their own peaceful music. Both had zipped up their jackets but, other than that, they really did not care for the sudden rain. Morgan sighed.

"I doubt others would share your sentiment. They believe that a killer is a killer and a killer is a bad person devoid of remorse no matter what." Morgan said. Reid shrugged.

"People are often misinformed and immediately struck by fear at the mere mention of a killer. What about you? I've been talking this whole time but I barely know your opinion on the matter." Morgan took his last sip – the sharp _ssszzzzt_ sound cut through the sweet, frosty air and made the people around him frown in annoyance – and then threw the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. They were almost at the end of the boardwalk. He could see the ocean spread out before them like a beautiful jeweled carpet painted by the slowly slipping sunset.

"I feel the same," he said quietly. They reached the end of the bridge and he folded his arms behind his back, staring distantly into the babbling water beneath his silver-tipped boots. They must have presented a strange site: he, with his crisp white button-up collar sticking out from beneath his leather jacket and ringed fingers and Reid in his tan woolen vest beneath a grey rain-jacket, clutching a book tightly beneath his arm. But there was no one there to witness the strange and beautiful site. By now everyone had fled in the face of the storm and only Morgan, Reid, and a few lost souls remained upon the old, wooden bridge. They watched the water jump and twitch with every heavy raindrop. Morgan removed his fedora and tilted his head back, letting the rain drip from his parted lips.

"I'd be much better off if I let more of that pass these lips then the other stuff."

"That and Kombucha," Reid said. Morgan laughed. He then looked at him with a curious gaze.

"You really are a genius, you know. In more ways than one. How do you go about applying that?"

"Sorry?" Reid said, drawing his eyes away from the water. Morgan shook his head.

"I'm asking what you work as, genius."

"I'm a –" Reid hesitated. He wanted to tell Morgan the truth: that he worked as a FBI agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit but he still wasn't feeling so hot about telling Percival that bit of news. It's not that he didn't trust Morgan – well, perhaps he didn't, he wasn't sure – but he felt it best to hold off on telling him for a little while longer. "I'm a…painter," he said, thinking quickly. Morgan gave him a disbelieving look. "And I'm also a student. I'm trying desperately to earn my degree…"

"Really? I would have put you at a psychologist or somethin' – no, an FBI agent. Isn't there a special branch that deals with the psychology of killers?"

"The Behavioral Analysis Unit," Reid said quickly. Then, realizing his mistake, he cursed himself and looked away towards the water. He could feel Morgan's gaze hot on his face like two points of fire and he hoped against hope that he wasn't blushing. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Morgan looked away. By now the rain was falling in greyish sheets that obscured their view and made the surface of the water dance in violent jerks and plucks. Morgan inhaled the cool scent, letting it fill his body and color his thoughts.

"You're a liar," he said with his eyes closed. Reid looked at him in surprise, "I can tell that you're lying about your job. But I appreciate that, I really do," he suddenly looked over at Reid, making the man shiver, "You value secrecy for the sake of your safety, I'm guessing, which means that you value yourself. A worthy endeavor, I think. You're a valuable person, Spencer Reid." He let this sink in for a moment before continuing, "My father used to say that it was both a shame and a blessing that people learned to value secrecy. It's funny but I used to love it when I was little and now I need it like I need food, water, shelter, and Chinese food every other Saturday night. Point is, I won't pry. You keep your secrets, I'll keep mine."

"Thanks….your father sounds like a great man," Reid said because he didn't know what else to say. Morgan shrugged and turned away from the water with downcast eyes.

"Was…he was a great man," he cleared his throat and suddenly cursed the rain in annoyance, "come on, we should get out of here. You got a place to go?"

"Yeah, I'm staying at a hotel nearby."

"All right…all right," Morgan made a move to walk away but suddenly he stopped and looked at him over his shoulder. He could barely see Reid through the pouring rain so he turned and moved in closer under the pretense of wanting to say something. Their breaths collided in frosty white blurs before them. He could see himself reflected and distorted in Reid's eyes and he could smell the rainy scent rising from the young man's neck. He smelled like coffee, old books, and a muffled sweetness that Morgan could not place. He opened his mouth to speak – he didn't know what would come tumbling from his faithless, black heart- and Reid, unaware of his actions, parted his lips, too but before either man could slip into the unspoken, unacknowledged temptation Morgan pulled away. He straightened his jacket, turned on his heel, and stalked away leaving Reid standing alone with a screaming heart in the cold, cold rain.

**Author's Note: I'm back and as ready as ever to get this Sperek train rollin', chuggin', crashin', 'n burnin' (not necessarily in that order.) Trust me, things (both sexy and scary) are going to start speeding up after this chapter. Spoiler: Reid's about to get his scrambled eggs and tea, if you know what I mean.**


	4. Chapter 4

Reid returned to the hotel later that night drenched with rain but curiously warm, almost uncomfortably so. He wanted to shrug off the heavy, water-soaked vest, slip off the pants and socks that now clung to his legs in an irritating way, and lie naked on top of the covers. It was one of those little things that people could never imagine Doctor Reid actually doing – he was a genius, after all, and didn't geniuses prefer to spend all of their time feeding off of books? – but he _was_ human and the moist heat that rose from his body and clung to his clothes annoyed him.

He smiled a tight, pursed smile and fluttered his hands in some sort of greeting at the receptionist. The woman merely stared back at him and snapped a wad of overly pink gum between her lipstick stained teeth in response. She looked to him like a woman unconcerned with her surroundings, especially the comings and goings of her boss's _boss's_ clients, but when he turned his back to her to press the elevator button she quickly picked up the phone and punched in several numbers. The dial tone seemed to last forever and she clicked her nails upon the polished wood as she waited with impatience. Finally the tone cut off mid-ring and a man's sleepy voice came through.

"He's here," she said as she watched Reid step into the elevator. The man on the other line said nothing and simply hung up before she had a chance to ask about her well-earned payment for the task.

XXxXx

Reid stepped out of the elevator and into the empty hallway. With its dusty lamps and perfectly uniform doors it seemed to expand forever before him, growing longer and longer by the second. Or perhaps he was just a bit dizzy again. Dizziness was a new side effect that he had been having with his headaches. He put his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut but after a moment he realized that there was no pain, no excruciating throbbing of his temple or bright, blurry colors. So if he wasn't having a headache then what was it?

He sighed, slipped his card into the thin metal slot and placed his hand on the cold handle, relishing the feel of its coolness before pushing the door open into an eerily dark room. He tried to think of what had made him feel this way. He had gone to visit Ethan, run into Morgan, walked with Morgan…

It was probably nothing.

Suddenly the door to the room a few doors down flew open and out stepped Percival with a wide grin on his face.

"Spencer! My old friend!" he proclaimed, throwing his arms out wide as if Spencer was a long-lost brother that he was welcoming home. Spencer took a wary step back. He could feel his heart begin to thump painfully in his chest.

"Percival," he said as pleasantly as he could. "H-how have you been?" His hands tightened around his shoulder strap and he took a step back. He didn't trust the man's over-exuberance. He did not trust it at all. Two slim men of the type that hid in alleyways and beat curious wanderers to a pulp stepped out from behind Percival and lingered in the hall, their thuggish eyes never leaving Spencer's face. One of the men began to crack his ringed knuckles with a gold-toothed smile on his face.

"Good, good. When will you be joining us for tea and scrambled eggs, cowboy?" Percival asked. The two men took another step forward. Spencer took a step back. By this time he had backed all the way into the hall leading into his room and while he longed to slam the door in their faces and set all of the locks he didn't want to appear awkward less Percival was actually being sincere, which Reid was seriously beginning to doubt.

"Actually, I don't know if I'd be able to," Reid said as he slowly eased the door closed. All he had to do was push the door a few more inches and he'd be, well, relatively safe from the unblinking fear that made him force his lips into a grim smile. But he never got to close the door. Before he could so much as blink Percival called something out to the men in a foreign tongue. They kicked the door open and sprang at Reid. One held a smooth hand to Reid's lips and a blade to his throat while the other forced his hands behind his back.

"Come now. That wasn't so hard, now was it? You could have just come on your own will but _nooooo_ you just had to do it the hard way." Percival said in an overly-sweet voice as he watched the whole affair from the doorway. One of the men bent Reid over at the waist and marched him awkwardly out of the door. Reid felt the rusty blade lift from the front of his neck and settle at the back where the man kept it firmly in place. He felt cool sweat begin to dampen his forehead and armpits but this discomfort was negligible in comparison to the predicament that he now found himself in.

"Mm-ph," he tried uttering Percy's name but the man at his side simply squeezed his mouth until a smattering of reddish-pink began to appear on Reid's aching cheeks. Kicking out wouldn't have done him any good: it was obvious that the seemingly sadistic men were desperate for any excuse to do him some harm. The most that Reid could do was stumble along complacently and hope that someone – anyone – would step out of the elevator or from their room. But, seeing as fate would not be so kind, he knew that his safety lay in his silence.

The two men followed Percival into his room where they then shoved Reid towards a fancy dinette. Another much larger man sporting a pair of sunglasses, grabbed Reid by the shoulders and pushed him into one of the glassy chairs. Reid looked around and tried to catalogue any and all escape routes but it seemed to him as if black clad men were suddenly appearing everywhere: blocking windows and doors with their violet-brimmed fedoras and thin smirks. Out of this featherless murder stepped Jordan in a gold satin dress that clung shamelessly to her every move. She smiled nastily at him before throwing a porcelain plate full of scrambled eggs in front of him.

"I made eggs!" she announced cheerily as globs of yellow and white tumbled over his hands and onto his pants. Reid looked around for an exit again but the man with the sunglasses had moved up behind him and placed his hand on the back of Reid's chair thus obstructing quite a bit of his view. Percival slid into the seat in front of them and sighed in a satisfied way.

"I want some of that," he said, picking one of the few remaining pieces off of Reid's plate. Jordan snickered and crossed her arms.

"I'll give you want I want when I want, got that?" Percival laughed.

"You want what I want, so it's all good," he giggled for a moment longer before finally taking Reid's fork and pulling it in and out of the spaces between his teeth, "Speaking of what I want….tell me more about your little cop business."

"There's nothing to say," Reid said with as much patience as he could muster, "I work for the BAU in Quantico."

"Nothing to say?! Why, you sure had a lot to say when you were on that balcony a while back. What's wrong? Romeo gotcha tongue, Juliet? What if I bite one of your lips off, you think Romeo will bring your tongue back?"

Reid didn't know what to think of this threat until Jordan came up behind him and forced his lips together. Reid whimpered in astonishment mingled with fear as Percival leaned over the table, his wickedly pearly teeth bared in excitement. It was only after Reid had strained every muscle trying to squirm out of the hands that held him down did Percival finally back away.

"Speak!" he shouted.

"I work for a special section of the FBI called the Behavioral Analysis Unit out in Quantico. Our main job is to use behavioral sciences – the study of the human psychology – to aid in criminal investigations. Happy?"

"You report to the _eff-bay-ey, _cowboy?" Percival asked lazily. He suddenly seemed subdued and bored by the whole affair yet still he watched Reid as a wise, calculating cat might watch an even wiser bird. Reid nodded. "But you're not a cop?" Reid shook his head again and Percival laughed. "No, you're not. I bet you couldn't even fathom getting me in handcuffs. Much less Jordan or Mikey over there." Everyone snickered and threw a glance at the man with the gold teeth standing in a shadowy corner. The man hooked his fingers in his pockets and hunched his shoulders in an act of shyness that Reid doubted was sincere. "And yet you are connected with the FBI. Very much so. You're like a little marionette or somethin'," suddenly Percival was behind him, his smooth lips only inches from Reid's ear. Slowly his fingers began to dance up and down Reid's neck, making the man cringe uncomfortably.

"Speaking of marionettes…I have a few. There are very powerful men and women who do my bidding around New Orleans and beyond. They jump when I say jump, dance when I say dance, and cut throats when I say that I'm displeased. No, not them," Percival cooed upon noticing Reid glance at the men that surrounded them, "but very, very important people in the government. However, don't underestimate the power of these men standing before you. Oh no, they too jump upon the chance to spill blood, true. But the other men and women," here Percival stood up and shimmied over to his side of the table, "well, they can make things happen. Lovely things happen. For me. And in return I make lovely things happen. For them. So you see, mister Eff Bay Ey, if one tiny little agent were to step in and cause even the slightest bit of trouble, well…he'd have to be exterminated, right? I mean, it's a powerful system that he'd be disrupting."

"I don't understand," Reid said with a furrowed brow. He realized that he should have been concentrating all of his time and energy on trying to escape but there was just one thing that he had to know, "What sort of exchange is involved in this…I don't know…Company?"

Percival turned and stared appreciatively and quite implicitly at Jordan in her golden dress before turning back to Reid. "Money. What else?"

"I understand that. But money in exchange for what?"

Percival opened his mouth to speak but before he could answer the man who had tackled Reid earlier took a step forward. "I think cowboy here's asking too many questions. It's time for us to dispose of his scrawny ass and get on with it."

"I don't remember asking you anything, Easton. Perhaps it's time for _us_ to dispose of _your _scrawny ass….that is, unless you learn to keep it in check for future reference. Gentleman," Percival gestured lazily with his hand and two men stepped forward. Reid watched in horror as they violently forced the wild-eyed man into a subdued position on the floor. Percival sniffed and tossed his head, not even deigning to glance at what was happening behind him. "Take him in the back. Make him forget his name and remember mine instead, will you?" The two men dragged Easton into a back room and slammed the door shut behind them. Due to his extensive engagement with serial killers and their bloody inclinations he was able to imagine a few things that could happen behind those doors.

"Anyway," Percival drawled on, "I should get to the point. Yes. You're a man of free will and such, cowboy. It's your choice. You can choose to be that little agent who got crushed by – what was it you called us? Ah yes, the Company. I like that title – or you can be that little agent who walked away with five thousand dollars in cash," here he casually slid an envelope across the table with a naughty smile, "because he chose to look the other way and, on occasion, offer his pretty little assistance. Your choice."

Suddenly Reid was yanked up from his chair and the yellow envelope was shoved into his chest. He grabbed it instinctually and let himself be prodded and shoved towards the door. His mind was spinning fast – much too fast for comfort – and it was only when he had stumbled against the wall opposite the doorway did he realize what it all meant.

He had been told to back off of a corrupt organization by a very psychopathic crime lord. They would not hesitate in killing him if he did not comply.

He walked back to his room with numb feet and cold hands. He had to get out of there and fast. Forget the money, forget the Company, forget Morgan. He had to _leave_.

The room was dark and unwelcoming as ever and it seemed to take forever for him to find the light switch. He finally found it and flicked it hurriedly. The room was bathed in a soft golden light and immediately he began to search around for the things that he would need to take. Clothes, books, those could all be left behind. He tossed the envelope with the money on a side table and began to throw important things into a duffel bag. But he couldn't stop his mind from wandering even though his hands worked at a furious pace. Exactly what was the Company? How influential were they? Could they have been linked to…

His hands grew heavier and heavier with each toss until finally he no longer had the strength to lift them anymore. His mind was suddenly burdened by a thousand thoughts and unanswered questions that he wanted, no, needed to know the answer to. He could run away, sure, and hide away in the safety of Quantico's anonymity, Hotch's severity, and the comfort of his worn book case but he'd never be able to run away from the intrigue and mystery of it the Company. Already his mind had spun a dozen link and webs connecting the Company to things that he had heard around New Orleans. He couldn't just leave it behind.

He muttered a quiet curse and dug around until he found his cellphone. Fingers shaking, he scrolled through the texts until he found what he was looking for. There were twelve pages worth of information contained in the attachment that Hotch sent him but he was up for it. He spent the next hour copying them out word for word on separate pieces of paper. This way he'd be able to absorb the words and, through the process of rewriting them, find new connections that he would not have been able to see on the tiny little screen.

Finally, at around 12:30 he rose from his desk with twelve wrinkled pages in his hands. He was tired but satisfied and when he slipped his bulging bag over his shoulder he felt as if he had a ton of bricks hanging from the straining straps. He turned the lights out and put his hand on the cool handle again but keen instinct caused him to stop and peer through the peephole first. What he saw made his heart beat faster.

Two men from Percival's entourage stood outside of door comparing what he thought to be bruised knuckles. It was obvious that they were going for a relaxed, hang-out-in-the-hallway appearance but Reid knew better than to think that he was safe in just strolling outside with his bag packed to leave. Percival had obviously intended for them to act as sentries outside of his doorway. Who knew what they would do to him if he were to try and leave the place.

Reid sighed in frustration and backed away from the door. He flicked the light switch on again along with the bathroom switch and the small table lamp. It was better for them to see the light shining beneath his door and think that he was awake and alert instead of asleep and thus vulnerable.

He sat on the bed with a heavy '_thumph_' and chucked his bag across the room. It was unfair, this game that he had been backed into, and he had to figure out how to battle his way out of it. Although he had never been a fan of wounding criminals he desperately yearned for his gun or at least the assuring feel of his holster against his thigh. But of course he hadn't brought it. He didn't think that a visit to his best friend would lead to an association with an out-and-out group of criminals.

There was one thing that he could do. He knew that he would have to do it ever since he first saw Percival poke his head out of his doorway. Perhaps the FBI agent in him knew that he would have to do it all along. He picked up the twelve pages of notes and set it on his lap. He would study it all night. Not once would he let himself lapse into a gentle sleep.


End file.
